writing out the bones

sometimes i feel very very small.  sometimes it's small in a good way- like when you stand on a mountain or at the edge of the ocean.  and sometimes it's small in a not so good way, like when i look at the statistics associated with this blog.  the number of "hits", the number of "followers".  it's especially bad if i look at other peoples numbers, or hear of other peoples success stories or publications, or book deals, blog awards, and tv appearances. then i shrink down to that tiny place, that 'why bother' place.  that feeling of 'who cares', and 'other people say it better (obviously)'. and then i become pretty sure that all this writing is doing is taking time away from other more important things- like making better dinners, or teaching people without a clue, to play 'clue', or taking care of more sick people.

but i have realized that if i don't come here and write- i will go crazy.  that if i don't put "it"down on paper (whatever "it" is)  i won't be able to cook, or play, or doctor.  i've also come to see that it's not just the writing it down that matters, it's pushing that orange button at the bottom of this page- "publish post".

so here i am.

the other day i'd written a very personal post about rose and our family and my process.  because of the topic and the choice of time in writing (namely during the afternoon, at home, with the 4 kids, while also making dinner)- it had taken me about 5 hours to finally finish.  i decided to read it to mike because i was having computer trouble and couldn't preview what i'd written.  he told me that it was too personal- out of his comfort zone- that he'd rather i don't publish it.

this was fine in theory.  i mean, he's allowed.  it's his life too.  there are times when our comfort zones are different, and his discomfort should trump my comfort. but in the course of discussion, he said something that gave me pause.   he asked me who i was writing for?

"me.  i'm writing for myself." i said quickly.

"well, you've already written it. you've processed what you needed to process, so why do you feel the need to push "publish"?

hun?

but it was a good question.  who am i writing for really? why do i want to push that orange tab? why do i care if people are reading this or not?

i'm not fishing for compliments, nor am i wrestling with low self-esteem, but honestly, will never be momastery or grady doc, or whatever, or rage against the minivan.  i am not a mommy blogger or a doctor blogger, or a feel good hip cool crafty photographer blogger, or an adoption blogger, or even a missionary blogger.  my lack of those titles, is so typical of me.  i'm just small and often confused with many sides.  i'm just struggling through my life, dealing with some common and some less common challenges.  i'm someone who seems to need to learn the same things over and over again. and i happen to love to write.

but.


as annie dillard says:
"This writing that you do, that so thrills you, that so rocks and exhilarates you, as if you were dancing next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else.”


i think its these things that thrill and rock and exhilarate, that we feel shy or comparative in, that we are meant to do.  we are compelled, we feel alive and real. 

i have years of journals.  i have written down much of my life- for me only. now, it is different. here, it is different.  i write for myself- but also- for community- for connection- for expression- for unity.  i write to remember- and share- and learn.  it began that day three years ago when zoe ate 3 earthworms- "just 'cuz".  when i felt alone with her and our challenges, when i felt like i was the only one living life with my underwear showing. all. the. time. most of what i read about having children with special needs, made me feel like a horrible person.  everyone else seemed to embrace the best in their child only, to see the blessings with out the struggle, everyone else seemed evolved, everyone else thought it was going to holland instead of italy- where i felt having zoe was like going to mars. so when i started writing here- i decided to be honest- even when it was painful, even if it bothered family members who felt family life shouldn't be exposed, even if i outed myself as the truly broken individual that i am.  the one who starts the day with 'help!' and ends it with 'i'm sorry.'  the one who spends a lot of time crawling to the cross- leaning on everlasting arms, and trying to be still.

and something magical happened.  really.  as i wrote it out- and shared it- i began to breath.  something about pushing that orange button, something about sharing it- the mess of it, and the beauty- helped me to feel more real and honest and okay.

my answer to mike was true.  i do write for myself, but putting it out there is part of it. i want other people to know they are not alone- whether their child is eating earthworms or not.  whether they live in snellville or africa.  whether they drive a minivan or don't have a car; or work outside the home or not; whether they are a doctor, or take care of people in other ways (because we all do that); whether they believe in a God who loves them, or not.

i want people to know they are loved, life is hard- and that's okay- because it's also so beautiful. some days we get it, some days we don't, but we try, we get up and do it again, we grow and learn and lean and hold and begin to let go- to be still, who ever we are, where ever we are, or were, or are going.

thanks for reading, for helping me not feel alone.